


Thy Little Wings are Stronger

by ranchoff, zinjadu



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Collaboration, F/M, Family Feels, Gen, Parenthood, Single Dad Cullen, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-10
Updated: 2018-10-09
Packaged: 2019-07-10 20:46:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15957212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ranchoff/pseuds/ranchoff, https://archiveofourown.org/users/zinjadu/pseuds/zinjadu
Summary: Maeve Trevelyan, third and youngest daughter of her house, never thought she'd be anyone important, but the mark on her hand is just the beginning of the surprises in store for her.  Meanwhile, Cullen Rutherford thought he'd had enough surprises to last a lifetime, but it turns out there was more ahead of him than he'd imagined.Single Dad Cullen AU, slow burn Female Trevelyan/Cullen romance, with added "How to Date a Single Dad" tutorial.





	1. Prologue

Maeve Trevelyan’s legs dangled off the side of the disused dock, her golden brown eyes tracing over the cracks in the ice below. She followed the path of their lines that spread from the shore all the way out to the center of the lake. The eerie green light of the Breach glinted off its surface. She glanced up at it almost by instinct, but snapped her gaze away just as quickly. She had been avoiding the sight of it, and carefully so. It loomed overhead like the eye of a storm, a perpetual reminder of the newfound mark on her palm and the inescapable responsibilities that came with it. All the lives she was now obligated to save. All the lives that had already been lost. The mysterious magic connecting her to the Breach, against her will. Her utter cluelessness about it all.

A sickening weight dropped into her gut, and  she pushed herself back onto her feet, itching to move again. She had thought she needed some solitude, a peaceful moment to herself amidst the chaos. Instead, the quiet was unhelpful, unwelcome. Perhaps being alone with her thoughts wasn’t the best thing for her right now after all. She set off absentmindedly in the vague hope of a distraction, and her legs carried her away from the lake, back toward the village.

She had told Varric that none of this had sunk in yet, which was partially true, but the more complete truth was that she hadn’t allowed it to. Maybe one day she’d be able to stare the issue in the face as she wished she could, bold and fearless and certain of what needed to be done. But for now, the best she could do was to keep tamping it all down, the outrage and the dread and the uncertainty. To steel her resolve and simply continue forward until she _was_ ready. Regardless, a small nauseating pit sat in her stomach.

Maeve wandered the camp, weaving through the scattering of tents, past soldiers and clerics and villagers, past mages and templars. It was odd to see them working side by side already. Some tension lingered, but for the most part it was peaceful. There were far fewer templars harassing mages than she’d have expected, at least. Still no sign of Colleen though. Maeve knew it was far-fetched, but she couldn’t stop herself from hoping to see her sister’s face among the many mages gathered here. Whatever had happened to Collen, wherever she was, she wanted to _know_. For better or for worse.

As she walked by, most carried on as usual, but several pairs of eyes lingered on her. Some of them squinted with suspicion and some were wide open in awe. Whatever their feelings about her, she wished they’d stop. Their stares were palpable, pressing in on her from every direction, forming an uncomfortable constriction in her chest. She didn’t know which was worse - those who eyed her with distrust, like she was a criminal or a walking weapon; or those who truly believed her a holy savior sent by the Maker himself. The former was annoying, but the latter sent a chill through her. It was too much hope and trust to place on any person, especially her. Besides that, she was hardly a devout Andrastian. To be called Andraste's herald left her profoundly uneasy.

She passed near Cassandra, who was in the midst of unleashing fury onto an unfortunate practice dummy. Her strong features were set firm, her gaze unwavering in its focus. Maeve still didn’t know what to make of her; but then, she didn’t know what to make of hardly anyone here. To say that the last few days had been full of surprises would be a colossal understatement. Cassandra didn’t strike her as particularly in the mood for conversation, so Maeve continued her directionless meandering through the camp.

Clusters of soldiers trained together in a small clearing between rows of tents, the clashing of their weapons and armor creating an irregular but continuous rhythm. A few archers caught her attention as they practiced drawing and firing arrows into targets as fast as possible. She made a mental note to come back another time to do the same. Preferably when fewer people were around. She stopped to observe them better when she arrived at a vantage point that was out of the soldiers’ way, not far from where Commander Cullen stood calling out directives. She contemplated the scene, her arms crossed before her. There were so many of them, the soldiers. There hadn’t been this many a few days ago. Where had they all come from?

She glanced over at the Commander. As with most of her new obligatory colleagues, Maeve had no clue what to think of him. She knew nothing about him except that he had been a templar, and that wasn't exactly a point in his favor. At least he was here now instead of with the rest of his order, but it still gave her pause. She never could fathom choosing a life in service of the Chantry, and rarely had much in common with those who did. That was not likely to change now. Although, at the moment, she'd talk to just about anyone for a distraction from her thoughts. And it probably wasn't a terrible idea to get the know the people she'd be working with, seeing as how it seemed she’d be here for the foreseeable future.

“I don’t remember there being so many soldiers here the other day,” she commented, stepping forward to close the gap between them. “Where did they all come from?”

“We've received a number of recruits - locals from Haven, and some pilgrims,” Cullen explained, turning his attention to her with the crispness of a man with years of martial drills behind him. “None made quite the entrance you did.”

“At least I got everyone's attention,” she said blithely, a sardonic edge in her tone.

“That you did.”

Maeve followed leisurely as he paced the training ground to watch over the practicing recruits. He explained how he had come into this position, recruited by Cassandra in Kirkwall before this all began. How poorly the Chantry was handling the mage-templar conflict and everything that had happened since the Conclave, and thus how crucial the Inquisition was now. How they could be a force for good in the face of it all, succeed where the Chantry had not. A spark of passion imbued his voice, but then he cut himself off mid-sentence with a shake of his head.

“Forgive me. I doubt you came here for a lecture.”

“You’ve given this a lot of thought,” she observed. To her surprise, his points resonated with her. In fact, she actually _agreed_ with him. She had not expected that.

“I know what happens when order is lost and action comes too late.” A weighty sigh escaped him, and his eyes gazed into the middle distance for a moment.  “There’s still a lot of work ahead.”

A scout jogged over to the pair of them to drag Cullen’s attention elsewhere. He was pulled away, and Maeve set off toward the main part of the village with her mind in a jumble. She had only come over here for a temporary distraction, but their conversation had turned out to be strangely inspiring. Almost reassuring. Whatever it was, it was not at all what she had anticipated.

She pulled herself from that tangle of thoughts and shifted her focus to how she could pass the rest of the afternoon. She might go to the tavern. She still hadn’t been there yet. Maybe -

Maeve’s thoughts were brought to a sharp halt by an abrupt impact to her legs, accompanied by a high pitched cry of “Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaddy!”

Glancing down she saw a small child--what in the Maker’s name was a _child_ doing here?--with a bright red bramble of curly hair and more frills on her winter dress than Maeve even knew to be possible. At a guess, she couldn’t have been more than three or four years old. In a rare moment of grace, Maeve braced one foot out and kept her balance while also reaching down to steady the child with her hand.

“Are you alright?” Maeve asked with concern. She craned her head up, eyes briefly sweeping across the camp, though she didn’t know who or what to even search for. Who did this child belong to? One of the recruits? What was she doing out here in the cold? And near the training ground, of all places? The little girl blinked up at Maeve and wiped her red nose on the back of one fluffy mitten. She was fair skinned and dotted all over with freckles, but she had large amber eyes that lit with a sudden grin.

“Yes-hi!” was her lightning fast reply.  The child didn’t volunteer any further information, however.  Kneeling down, Maeve tried to keep the girl’s attention, though she seemed preoccupied by the training going on just over Maeve’s shoulder. Her father must be one of the recruits, but Maeve wasn’t about to let a little girl go run among a field of armed, practicing soldiers.

“I’m Maeve, what’s your name?” she asked, and then added, “If you tell me who your father is, I can go get him for you.” The girl smiled, a toothy grin that was as bright as the sun glaring off the snow around them.

“I’m Olive, and my daddy is--”

“Olive!” Cullen's voice cried out behind her, and suddenly he was there stepping past her to scoop the girl up in his arms.  He held her carefully so that she was nestled into the fur ruff of his mantle, not the metal of his breastplate. The girl giggled and exclaimed, “Daddy!  Missed you!”

Maeve was so astonished that she forgot to stand back up for a good ten second count. Cullen, the Commander of the Inquisition, was a _father_? A father of a very small child who was here at Haven, no less. He had neglected to mention that little detail.  

“I know, Little Bean, and I missed you,” he said to his daughter so softly and gently that Maeve was almost disoriented by it. How was this the same man who barked orders and yelled at recruits all day?  “But you can’t come rushing out here on your own. Where’s Esther?”

Maeve kept silent as she watched them. She wasn’t sure if she should even still be here for this, but she wouldn’t move for anything. Olive blushed and her eyes tracked right, unable to look at her father as she recounted her wrongdoing.

“In our rooms.  But!” Olive’s face scrunched up in complete and righteous indignation.  “It was nap time, and nap time is _boring_.”  Cullen sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose with his free hand.  That was when he noticed Maeve still standing there, and he grumbled something unintelligible under his breath.

“Herald, I am very sorry about this.  I am sure you have questions, but for the moment I must see my daughter back to her nanny.”

“Nooooooooo,” Olive wailed.  “No _nap_.”  Maeve could see the battle of wills about to play out before her.  One willful, high energy child against one worried and tired commander.  Maeve didn’t like Cullen’s odds.

“What if you help me, Olive?” Maeve asked.  Father and daughter alike eyed Maeve with surprise. She put a pleasant expression on her face. Perhaps she was overstepping - she had made the offer without really thinking about it, but why not? She liked children well enough and moreover, he obviously could use the help. At any rate, babysitting sounded more entertaining than anything else she originally had planned for the day. _Anything_ was better than getting dragged into another conversation with Solas about the Fade. “I’m new to Haven, and I could use a guide. How does that sound?”

Olive opened her mouth to reply, likely to happily volunteer, but then she remembered that she’d been in trouble but moments ago.  She looked up at her father, amber eyes shining with cautious hope. Cullen regarded his daughter and sighed, his shoulders slumping in defeat.

“You are to listen to the Herald and do exactly as she says, yes?” Cullen asked.  A thread of stern command wended through his tone and drew his brows down, but it was blunted by the tender affection in his eyes.  Olive nodded so quickly that her red curls bounced wildly about her face. Cullen hefted his daughter easily, and he regarded Maeve, worry clouding his eyes.  “Thank you, for… having Olive help you. It is much appreciated.”

“Of course. I know I’ll be in good hands,” Maeve said in earnest, though she suddenly felt in over head.  She had a mark of unknown magical power on her hand, and a child was proving more daunting. Cullen set his daughter down and straightened her thick pink winter dress, fussing over her just as a father should. Quite unlike her own parents had ever done, never really bothering to pay her much mind at all unless there was some influential guest coming to visit or an important party to attend. Maeve held out her hand, and a small, mittened one fell into it. Olive’s smile instantly proved infectious.  “Well, where shall we go?”

“Gotta see Auntie Josie _first_.  She’s the best and has cookies, and--”  Olive continued to extol Josephine’s many virtues, and Maeve allowed the little girl to lead her back into the village proper to meet everyone Olive thought was important.  As she did, she glanced back to see Cullen watching their progress, the balance of his attention on his daughter, but when he met Maeve’s eyes he dipped his head and gave her the barest of smiles.

Unexpected, to say the least.

***

_Cullen pinched the bridge of his nose, the dull thud of his headache growing as the day wore on.  They were barely weeks past the Chantry explosion and already people were coming to him with their complaints and wants and--Maker it was too much.  He was trying to hold this city together as best he could after Hawke had been typically Hawke at the problem. The problem. As if Meredith’s raging paranoia and Orisino’s desperate fear spilling out over Kirkwall had been no more than a back alley scuffle._

_For a short time the city had held its breath, waiting for another cataclysm, but when none appeared the people of Kirkwall did what they did best: found someone else to fix their problems.  And - for some reason - without Hawke here as the target, Cullen had become the focus for it all._

_No, that was not fair.  He had seen the need and stepped in to fill it.  Though he had thought someone would have been sent by now.  One of the other cities would have sent a real leader, or the Chantry would have sent someone.  But no missives or personages appeared to save him from his own sense of responsibility._

_“An older couple to see you, ser.  They’re, uh, saying, well,” Owen said, his adam’s apple bobbing up and down nervously.  The boy had been but an initiate of the Order when it all happened, and he was just as overwhelmed as Cullen at everything that had followed.  Though he usually held up better than this, and Cullen frowned, making the young man fidget. “Um, don’t know how to say this, ser.”_

_“Out with it, Owen,” Cullen ordered tersely.  He was too tired to mollify his tone, and he tried to maintain his focus.  How long had it been? He’d need another draught soon. Too soon. They’d been using too much by the end, all of them.  The stores in the Gallows were nearly depleted, and there was no telling when another shipment would come into the city._

_“Yes, ser.  Sorry, ser,” Owen stumbled over his words, but before the lad could say what was the matter the older couple in question barged in through the thick wooden door.  They were both older, yes, but upright in bearing which meant they might be among the city’s nobility. Why hadn’t Owen led with that? This would turn his headache into a migraine for certain and he could not afford to spend the rest of the day in a darkened room curled up in pain._

_“Cullen Rutherford, correct?” the man barked, his auburn mustache drooping over his face, but Cullen thought it should have been bristling like a cat’s tail.  His hair was red as well, though threaded through with grey. The woman, his lady wife no doubt, regarded Cullen cooly with clear blue eyes, her ash blonde hair braided up in those complicated knots the noble women of this city so loved.  There was something familiar about her, however, perhaps about the nose._

_“Yes,” he said slowly.  Then Cullen noticed that the woman was holding a small bundle in her arms.  He blinked. It was a baby._

_“You knew our daughter,” the woman said.  Neither had given him their names, but then the familiarity clicked for him.  He had known their daughter. Alena. A woman he had met by chance in the Chantry.  A woman who had smiled at him and said there would be no promises. A woman who had been as lonely and lost as he was, and with her, from time to time, his life had been a little less lonely._

_Then, roughly a year ago, she had disappeared.  He had meant to find her, but Meredith had increased his duties and he never had enough time.  Alena with her blue eyes, sharp nose and glorious red hair had disappeared from his mind as his life revolved in an ever tightening gyre around rooting out blood magic, meeting out punishments, and his growing revulsion for what he was becoming but not knowing how to stop._

_Stricken at the implications, Cullen could find no words.  Dumbly, he stared at the babe._

_“She died in that damned Chantry,” the man, Alena’s father growled.  He slammed one meaty fist to the desk, nearly making the ink pot tip over.  “Never knew why she kept going to that place, after bearing a bastard--”_

_“The point, if you would,” Cullen said quietly, as quietly as a drawn sword as he regarded the older man with ice in his gut.  A bastard. This man had just called Alena’s child--his child--a bastard. Technically true, but he would not stand for it._

_“The point, Ser Rutherford,” Alena’s mother said, her cultured tones smoother than her husband’s grumbling, but her irritation and distaste was just as plain.  “Is that Alena brokered a deal with us to keep the child. She was not to tell you nor see you again, and in return we would not give the child to the Chantry. It seems she was trying to skirt around that by hoping to meet you.  Now, however, we are left with a child that we cannot raise. While we could give her to the Chantry, my husband and I agreed that you have a right to her, since Alena’s shame is no longer of concern.”_

_It was a bald assessment of the situation, and Cullen was staggered at the lack of familial feeling these two showed.  Alena had been warm, bright, though he began to understand why she carried a burden of sadness with her, with parents like this._

_“What is her name?” he asked, the steel in his voice replaced by something soft.  A softness he had thought long since abandoned._

_“Olive,” the man said shortly.  No last name. That was no matter, Cullen would give her his.  He could give her that much at least. Then Alena’s father grunted.  “So you’ll take her?”_

_“Yes, of course.”  Cullen’s answer was quick and a flash of anger rode in his voice.  Anger that taking in a child would be a question. Without ceremony, Alena’s mother made to come around the desk, and Cullen met her halfway.  She deposited the swaddled bundle in his arms, and Cullen peered at the little face curiously. A fair skinned child, freckles already on her face, and an adorable little button nose.  Fine, red curls kissed her forehead, and Cullen was glad to see that she had her mother’s hair. He had not been in love with Alena, nor she with him, but he was glad she was not entirely gone from this world._

_“She was born two months ago, on the seventh day,” the older woman said, and then stepped away as if washing her hands of the matter entirely.  As if it cost her nothing to give up the last remnants of her daughter._

_“Good day to you, Ser Rutherford.  We are leaving this city, and will not be returning,” the man said by way of parting.  They saw themselves out, and Owen stared at Cullen with large eyes. Cullen didn’t care as he held his daughter, enchanted at the sight of her._

_A daughter.  He had a daughter.  Unasked for, unexpected, but Maker above, how he loved her already.  Gently, he held her close and breathed in. She smelled of soap and milk and all that was soft and precious in the world._

_His headache had gone away, and he didn’t think he’d need lyrium quite as soon as he’d feared._

_“Hello Olive,” he whispered to her.  The strident tones and desk pounding had not woken her, but his quiet voice did.  Her eyes were huge and amber. His eyes, and he blinked back sudden tears as his daughter saw him for the first time.  “I’m your father.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More to come, stay tuned! We were just too excited to drop this to wait!


	2. Chapter 1

“I like the soft cookies the best, but the snappy ones are fun, too, what’s your favorite cookies?” Olive asked.  HerHer little mittened hand gripped Maeve’s with surprising strength as she led her through the village, and Maeve had to awkwardly adjust her steps to match the girl’s tiny strides.

“I like the soft cookies the best too, especially the kind with cinnamon on them,” Maeve replied, smiling down at her guide.  Olive’s grin stretched from ear to ear, and she inhaled as though delighted at the discovery.

“Me too!” she said, nearly shouting.  Maeve glanced about to see if they’d just disturbed anyone at work, and that was when Maeve noticed that no one was surprised to see a little girl in a frilly pink dress wandering through a military encampment. Some even smiled and waved and called out to Olive, eliciting many enthusiastic responses of “hi! hi!” from her. She was quite popular, it seemed.

They arrived at a set of stairs, where Olive’s movement was momentarily impeded by her long, voluminous dress. Maeve held one hand tight while Olive hoisted up her skirt with the other. Olive wore an expression of utmost concentration as she struggled to peer past her fluffy layers of skirts to watch her step, her brows knit together just as her father’s had been while reading the report the scout handed him. It made her look _so_ like the commander in the moment that Maeve was startled to see the echo of the man’s features in a child’s face.  As Olive approached the top of the steps, Maeve caught sight of the tiniest, most precious pair of fur boots she had ever seen, and stifled the sudden urge to coo over them. It was silly of her, they were only boots, but Maker, how could they even _make_ boots that small?

The stairs now conquered, Olive regained her self-assured step and tugged Maeve forward with her.  Maeve was watching to make sure she didn’t step on Olive’s dress, so she started when she heard Varric’s basso rumble from a mere few feet away.  “Ah, I see you’ve met the most delightful member of this rag-tag band.”

“Varric!” Olive exclaimed happily, flinging herself at the dwarf and failing to wrap her arms around his middle.  She grinned up at him and launched into a breathless explanation of their current endeavor and ended with, “You can come if you want!  Auntie Cass is hitting the straw really hard right now!”

“Little Bean, you know me well,” Varric drawled, tapping her nose gently with one finger, sending the girl into a peal of giggles.  “I think I’ll join you, if that’s alright with you, Herald.” Varric’s eyes glinted with amusement as he regarded Maeve.

“Hm, promise that you’ll never call me ‘Herald’ again, and we’ve got a deal,” Maeve said, not unkindly, though with a slight prickle. She didn’t know when or _why_ everyone had decided to address her as such, as if it were her actual title, as if she actually _were_ the Herald of Andraste, but it was really starting to grate on her nerves.

“Hm,” Varric contemplated. “Alright, deal.”

Olive seemed to understand that meant Varric was coming along, evidenced by how she bounced on her feet and nodded enthusiastically, each nod punctuated with a happy “yes!” With _two_ people on the way to get cookies, that was too much excitement for Olive to contain and she promptly dashed ahead. For being so small, she was _quick,_ and she had all but disappeared from view by the time Maeve realized she had run off. Her chest constricted at the thought of losing the commander’s daughter mere moments after being entrusted with her care.

“That’s far enough, Little Bean!” Varric called out, cupping his hands around his mouth, and that stopped Olive like a puppet on a string.  The girl tip-toe danced around in a small circle and while she didn’t return to hold Maeve’s hand, neither did she dash ahead. Instead, she skipped just out in front of Maeve and Varric, the frills of her dress and her ginger curls bouncing in time to the snatches of song she sang.

“Well, at least one of us knew what to do,” Maeve breathed, hand to her chest as if she could still the fast pace of her heart.  

“Ah, she’s a good kid.  Just gets over excited.”

“Apparently so. I guess I have a lot to learn.” As she watched the girl jaunt ahead of them, her curiosity got the better of her. “Varric - you knew Cullen back in Kirkwall, didn’t you?”

“I suppose you could say that.”

“Did you know Olive back then, too?”

“Yes, though not very well.  I saw Cullen occasionally with the little bean back in Kirkwall before Cassandra summarily kidnapped me, but didn’t think about it much.  Then we get here and there he is with her, damned adorable really. Anyway, she’s pretty much got run of the village, as long as she’s with someone our commander trusts.  So that’s Esther, her nanny—fun woman, don’t play Wicked Grace with her—her ‘aunties’: Ruffles, the Seeker, and our Spymaster. Yeah, feel free to picture that. Our lady of knives signing lullabies.  I’ve seen it. Not bad. Or a few folks from Kirkwall Curly brought with him. And now you, apparently.”

“I notice you’re not on that list, Varric.”

“Oh that’s because Curly thinks I’ll forget about her while I’m writing something.  Or that I’ll teach her bad words and tell her inappropriate stories. I’ll admit he’s half right.”

“Varric says Hawke kicked Daddy!”  Olive yelled back at them, clearly pleased to have something to contribute to an adult conversation.  Varric chuckled, and then smirked up at Maeve.

“I still find a way to corrupt the youth, however.  Special talent,” he drawled. Maeve laughed. They continued to the Chantry where Josephine had ensconced herself, passing by the abrasive requisitions officer who cheerily waved back to little Olive as the girl flounced by promising to bring Threnn cookies.  Maeve made to skirt Leliana’s post as well, fairly certain that a child shouldn’t be too close to that many secrets, but the Inquisition’s spymaster noticed them anyway.

“Olive, where is your hat?” Leliana asked, as she set her scout’s reports to the side.  Olive’s face scrunched up again, and her winter-chapped cheeks puffed out as she held her breath.  Leliana laughed. The grieving, sharp-edged spymaster _laughed_ , and it sounded like the happy trilling of songbirds, not the bitter chuckle of a woman lost.  “I know you don’t like it, but the snow makes the sun even worse. We talked about this.”

“Don’t like hats!” Olive exclaimed, and fled into the Chantry.  If Maeve could credit a little girl with it, she would have called it a tactical retreat.  Leliana’s smile remained warm as she watched Olive disappear behind the Chantry doors.

“Good try, Nightingale, but she’s a stubborn one.  Can’t imagine where she gets that from.” Varric rolled his eyes dramatically and followed Olive. Maeve hesitated, torn between wanting to catch up with them and the urge to ask Leliana a few questions about the girl, but one cursory glance at the spymaster quelled that urge. Though her normally dour expression had softened in Olive’s presence, the remnants of a smile lingering on her features, her eyes still struck Maeve as hard and uninviting. Attempting to pick her brain was probably not the best idea.

“I should go catch up with them,” Maeve said by way of goodbye.She made to walk away, but Leliana abruptly spoke up.

“I must tell you, Herald, we are all very fond of little Olive,” she said pointedly, with a scrutinizing gaze. It was a look she wore often, always observing people with careful evaluation. A look that set Maeve on edge. “She is dear to us, and I think you can understand why.”

“Of course I do,” Maeve said defensively, biting back the impulse to ask _and what exactly is that supposed to mean?_ It was obvious that Leliana was sizing her up in some manner, though she wasn’t sure exactly how or why. Was _every_ conversation with Leliana going to go like this? “She’s a sweet little girl.”

“That she is,” Leliana answered, her face unreadable. “I won’t keep you any longer, Herald. I’m sure that Olive and Varric are wondering where you disappeared to.” She turned away, retreating back to her work, and Maeve wasted no time in striding ahead to catch up with her companions.

She found them in Josephine’s office, at the far end of the main hall of the Chantry. Maeve stood quietly in the door frame to observe the scene before her: Josephine out from behind her desk for once, kneeling next to Olive, handing her a small cookie as if it were a precious coin. Varric, meanwhile, had sidled over to the desk where a brightly coloured, decorative box held the rest of the cookies. With a wink at Maeve, he slipped his hand into the box and swiped a few cookies, shoving them into his coat pocket.

“Ah, here you are, Herald,” Josephine remarked. There it was again. She was starting to suspect that no one even _knew_ her actual name. She was pulled away from that line of thought, though, when Olive spun around in an excited flash to look at Maeve, her curls bobbing, half a cookie in hand, crumbs stuck to her lips. “The young Lady Rutherford here was just telling me that I simply _must_ save a cinnamon cookie for you, as well. She was gravely concerned about the matter.”

“But not concerned enough to wait for me, I see,” Maeve teased as Olive devoured the rest of the cookie, her cheeks bulging.

“I’m sorry!” Olive exclaimed through a mouthful of cookie, her amber eyes open wide in apology. Maeve choked back a laugh at that. She couldn't decide whether it was heartbreaking or hilarious how truly sorry Olive seemed to be.

“My lady,” Josephine sighed tiredly, but with affection, “We have discussed this before, you mustn’t talk while you have food in your mouth.  It is not polite.”

“I’m sorry,” Olive repeated, her mouth still filled with cookie bits. Both Varric and Maeve laughed at that, and Olive looked between the three adults with uncertainty, evidently confused whether she was in trouble or not.

“We will have to keep working on that,” said Josephine.

“You’re alright, Little Bean,” Varric reassured her with a wave of his hand. She chewed and swallowed the rest of her cookie very carefully, then pointed at Maeve decisively.

“ _You_ need a cookie,” Olive decreed, and without delay she marched over to the desk and tried to reach her short arms up to grab the box.

“That’s very sweet, Olive,” Maeve said. “But those are Josephine’s cookies, so you should probably ask her first.”

“Oh,” Olive said shortly, brows furrowed in momentary thought. “Um, Auntie Josie, can she have one? Please,” she tacked on as a hurried afterthought.

“Of course,” Josephine answered with a nod. She took up the box and gave Maeve the last cinnamon cookie - or rather, she handed it to Olive, who insisted that _she_ wanted to hand it to Maeve.

While Maeve ate, Olive recounted the entire story of her day in a frenzy, as if it were the most important story ever told, all about how she had been playing outside with Esther but then it was nap time and she didn’t want it to be nap time so she went to go find Dad dbut he had to help the “shoulders” practice but then - she hesitated here, and had to be reminded of her new friend’s name - oh yeah, Maeve, she needed help so Olive was showing her everything and they found Varric and they even saw Aunt Leli, too!

“My,” Josephine reacted after a beat, once it was clear that Olive’s story was over and she wasn’t just pausing for a breath. “That is quite the thrilling tale. How kind of you to help the Herald find her way around.”

“Mmhmm!” Olive agreed, a proud smile writ on her face.

“You know, Josephine,” Maeve said, as carefully polite as she could be, “I’d really rather not be called ‘Herald.’”

“Lady Trevelyan, then?” It wasn’t Maeve’s favorite way to be addressed, but she knew that it was probably the best she’d get from Josephine and her unwavering sense of propriety. And it was a damn sight better than ‘Herald.’

“Alright,” she accepted, albeit with reluctance. Olive had already grown bored of this conversation, and wandered over to tug on the hem of Maeve’s coat. “Yes?” she asked the girl, barely suppressing a laugh.

“Um, I wanna go,” Olive said bluntly, her excitement from seeing Josephine and getting cookies apparently abated.

“I will not keep you any longer, my lady,” Josephine said graciously, with an amused glance. “By all means, continue your tour.”  They gathered up Olive's little mittens that had long since been cast onto the floor and said goodbye and thanked Josephine for the cookie. Though Maeve and Varric had to thank her first to remind Olive to do so. They then took their leave, Olive trotting a few feet ahead of them to lead the way.

“Hey, Little Bean,” Varric muttered in a low grumble as they marched across the main hall of the Chantry. Olive stopped in her tracks and turned around, her eyes wide and anxious in anticipation of being in trouble. Again. But then her expression melted into an excited grin when she saw Varric pull a small, chocolatey cookie from his pocket. “But this is our little secret, okay?”

“Okay,” Olive whispered loudly as he passed it off to her, then shoved the entire thing into her mouth at once, destroying the evidence.

“You're a bad influence,” Maeve laughed.

“I never claimed to be anything less,” Varric crooned. “And now that my job of corrupting the next generation is done, I think I'll take my leave. Once you're off babysitting duty, you should come stop by The Singing Maiden. It can actually get pretty exciting in there some nights, and the ale isn't half bad either.”

“I might, if I'm not too tired later.”

“NO!” Olive shouted suddenly, catching up with the conversation now that she had finally chewed and swallowed most of the cookie in her mouth. “No, Varric! I want you stay!”

“Hey, Little Bean,” Varric said, carefully deflecting. “Have you shown Maeve any of your _amazing_ art yet?”

The effect was instant.

“No!” Olive gasped, and her pout transformed into a enormous grin. Breathless, the little girl turned that grin on Maeve, her amber eyes wide and hopeful in her face.  “Do you wanna see?!”

“I sure do,” Maeve answered.  Olive instantly latched onto Maeve's hand with her own, pulling her toward the Chantry's double doors.

“We have to go this way,” Olive explained. Once outside, Varric set off in the other direction and she shouted “bye Varric!!” loud enough to catch the attention of everyone in the immediate vicinity.  She waved one mittened hand at the dwarf, and Varric waved back at the girl, a fond smile curving his lips.

They hadn’t even made it five feet from the Chantry when Maeve saw a figure striding toward them with a determination that spoke of someone who had been looking for something lost.  Olive let out a high-pitched _eep_ and hid behind Maeve’s legs.  Maeve did her best to draw herself up and stand between whatever made her temporary charge so nervous.  The woman was older, perhaps of an age with Maeve’s own mother, with shock white hair and a well-lined face that could still be described as handsome.  She wore a sturdy, plain dress of a Marcher cut, with a thick cloak about her shoulders.

“Olive Syballine Rutherford, you disappeared on me!” the woman said.  Her tones were strident and clear, imparting an obvious worry and frustration, but she did not shout.  The line of her mouth was turned down, but Maeve could see the genuine concern in the other woman’s brown eyes.

“Sorry,” Olive said in the smallest voice Maeve had ever heard.  “I was only _helping_.”  Rather than point out how little that statement made sense, the older woman shifted her gaze to Maeve.  For the second time in the space of an hour, Maeve could tell she was being scrutinized. Unlike Leliana, there was nothing of a sharp blade about the woman, but that didn’t mean she was weak, either.

“I’m sorry, you must be Esther,” Maeve said, extending her hand.  Her right hand. Suddenly, she was grateful that the mark was on her left if she was to be burdened with the blasted thing.  “It’s my fault that we didn’t come find you right away. I asked Olive to help show me around the village.”

“The commander told me she was with you.  He’s always the first place I look for our Little Bean when she runs off, which is something she knows better than to do,” Esther said pointedly, glancing down at the girl.  Olive, in a departure from her habitual stubborn defiance, toed the snow dusted ground.

“I said _sorry_ ,” Olive countered, cheeks puffing out once more.  Maeve saw it all over again, another battle of wills as people tried to make the little girl do what she was told. She understood the commander and Esther’s plight, trying to keep a little girl safe in the middle of a war camp. But Maeve also knew what it was like to be the smallest and youngest of everyone she knew, told to be there, look a certain way, _behave._ To be bombarded with rule after rule, seldom with any explanation beyond “because I say so.” She knelt next to Olive and the movement captured the girl’s attention.

“You know, Olive, apologizing is good, but it’s not really being sorry if you keep doing it. It’s sorry for being in trouble.  Does that make sense?” she asked, and then suddenly felt like kicking herself. Was she really lecturing the child of a person she barely even knew? What was wrong with her?

Maeve kept her eyes firmly on Olive, not wanting to see what must have been a thunderous look on Esther’s face.  The girl’s cheeks deflated as she gave Maeve’s words more than cursory thought.

“But I don’t wanna be in trouble!”  Her voice still carried all her stubbornness, but Maeve thought that she might have gotten something of the idea through to the girl.

“I know, believe me,” she said with genuine sympathy. It really _wasn’t_ fair, or at least she could see why Olive felt that way. This wasn’t exactly the most normal environment to grow up in. “But Esther’s only upset because she wants you to be safe, and she can’t be sure you’re safe if she doesn’t know where you are.”

“I said _sorry_ ,” Olive responded after a pause, avoiding eye contact with Maeve, her brow furrowed seriously. But there was a hint of deliberation in her small voice that suggested maybe, just _maybe_ , the message had actually sunk in. Even if only a little.

“Not too badly done,” Esther commented quietly.  The older woman’s mouth pursed, but then she broke into a pleased smile.

The crisis of a full-blown tantrum averted, Olive surged forward once more, tugging Maeve along behind her.  In short order they reached one of the cabins that dotted the village, but this one had not been converted to another use.  Instead it had been kept as a home. There were even simple white curtains on the inside of the glass windows. Likely they had already been there when the army had moved in, or Esther had seen to them.  Yet the image of the oh-so-serious commander picking out _curtains_ flashed past her mind’s eye, and it made Maeve’s lips twitch as she suppressed a grin.

Esther unlocked the door, and they all tumbled inside.  Esther had Olive remove and put away her mittens and boots.  Maeve followed suit and set her slush covered boots and woolen scarf to the side of the door, only for Olive to pull her along to a little nook by the fireplace.  There was a tiny desk and chair set, and the desk was _covered_ with childish drawings.  At a glance, Maeve saw a prominently featured figure that she guessed to be Olive’s father, judging by the distinctive fuzzy mass around his shoulders.  

“These are very good, Olive,” Maeve said. They really were, for a child her age.  She shifted through the papers, deciphering familiar characters among the blobs and scribbles - all of Olive’s aunties were present, and Esther, and even a few of Varric. There were some other subjects depicted in the scattered drawings, though Maeve couldn’t make out who they were meant to be. Then there, buried, was a picture that made Maeve bark with laughter before she could stop herself.

“I know it’s not very good, but he’s hard to draw!” Olive said in a sorrowful little voice.

“Oh no, Olive I’m not laughing at the picture!  I promise.” Maeve knelt again, moving the picture in question closer so she could get a better look at it.  “I’m laughing because it’s so _good_!”

“Really?  Really really!?” Olive asked, breathless.  Maeve nodded.

“ _Really_ ,” Maeve stressed.  Olive squealed in delight and abruptly launched herself at Maeve, little arms squeezing tight, her burnished copper curls tickling Maeve’s nose.  Shocked at the sudden and easy affection of the girl, Maeve didn’t move for a moment. Then, with a touch of hesitation, she squeezed back until Olive gasped and giggled.

“I’m gonna draw a picture for you!” Olive declared, letting Maeve go and turning to her desk with as much seriousness as she could muster.  Maeve lowered herself to the floor and waited while Olive drew, her brow furrowed in concentration and her little hands tightly gripping the colored bits of wax.  Maeve waited patiently, but she couldn’t help but glance back at one particular drawing again and again, the one that had made her laugh so hard. It was a drawing of Solas, true to life with green legs and a light brown torso, but it was the proportions of it that had set Maeve off.  

Perched atop the twiggy form of his body sat a massive egg-shaped head.

 

* * *

 

The harsh bite of the mountain air filled Cullen’s lungs as the sun set behind the rearing peaks.  Though one peak was no longer quite so mighty, but he turned his mind back to his work and away from the looming threat.  Training had run long today. The number of recruits was increasing, and he had more and more to do every day. He had a few solid people who had been promoted to captain rank, as much as rank mattered in an army that barely officially existed.  Yet he could not let some things go quite so easily, and one of them was ensuring that those who came to the Inquisition were not only properly trained, but understood their role. He would not tolerate swaggering or the belief of a divinely appointed crusade.  The Inquisition was an arm of the faith, yes, but their role was to protect the people of the lands under threat. Cullen saw to it that every recruit internalized the humility required for such a task.

He had seen what pride had done in Kirkwall, and he would not be part of that ever again.

“Commander, ser,” Owen said, breaking into Cullen’s thoughts.  He turned to the younger man, who was no longer the same wide-eyed former Templar initiate he had been years ago.  Thankfully Owen had never taken lyrium and had weathered the transition out of the Order better than most of his fellows.  Better than Cullen, certainly. “I know we’re ending later and later, ser. If you want, I can take over the later shift. You haven’t been able to have dinner with Olive in days, ser.”

“Thank you, Owen.”  He clapped the man’s shoulder, and a slight smile tugged at his mouth.  “I know you mean well, but I cannot ask that of you. It is important--”

“So’s your daughter, ser.”  Owen held Cullen’s gaze, and Cullen sighed.  His daughter _was_ important.  The most important person in the world to him, but if she was to be safe and have a world, he needed to do all he could to preserve the world for her.  And yet, what did he miss by not being there? Resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose or rub his temple--a headache was forming and he wished to find sleep soon--Cullen knew the young man was right.

“Very well.  Coordinate with Rylen and the other captains and have a plan to me by tomorrow morning,” he ordered, and Owen’s grin was incongruous for a man who had just received a not insignificant task.

“Yes ser!”  Owen snapped off a quick salute, and began to stride away into the village to seek out the captains of the army.  Then he turned and trotted backwards for a moment, cupping his hands around his mouth. “And tell my grandmother I’ll see her later!”

Cullen nodded by way of reply, and made his way through the snow and gravel strewn paths of the village toward the cabin that had been accorded to him by virtue of his position and because of Olive.  Leliana in particular had been most insistent that Olive have a proper roof over her head. He bypassed the tavern, where some bard was singing already of the Herald’s deeds, and no doubt a warm stew was waiting for all who wished to supplement their rations.  

Then there it was, his makeshift home.  It wasn’t much, but it was his and Olive’s, and a warm, golden light spilled out from behind the white curtains that were now drawn over the windows.  He tamped as much snow and slush as he could off his boots before he opened the door, and like every time he came home, his daughter rushed to him and he caught her up easily in his arms and held her tight.

“Daddy!” she exclaimed.  It never failed. His daughter’s love and perennial excitement to see him to drove away all the weariness and frustration that accumulated in his life. She was the best part of every day.  She might be stubborn and willful, might throw a tantrum and refuse to wear her hats or take a nap or eat beans, but her heart was the most beautiful thing Cullen had ever known.

“Did you have a good day, Little Bean?” he asked, and then he finally looked past his daughter to see Esther gathering up her bag to return to the cabin she shared with other serving women.  And he saw the Herald. Had she been with Olive all day? He had thought she would help distract his daughter and then return to her to the care of Esther for the balance of the day, but she was still here.  

“Yes yes!  We went to see Auntie Josie, and Varric came too, but Aunie Leli said I had to wear my hat.  I don’t like hats, Daddy! But then we got cookies, and I showed Maeve all my art, and she said it was really good!  I made her an art too, want to see?” Cullen nodded and offred a quiet _of course_ , as his daughter slipped out of his arms and dashed to her little desk.  While he lavished compliments upon Olive for her newest creation, out the corner of his eye he noticed the Herald standing and making to leave.  

He had to explain Olive to her.  She needed to know, but by the same token he did not think he should have to explain his daughter.  Olive was his daughter, and that was all the world needed to know. But this woman was now one of the Inquisition’s agents, and they would have to work together.  Caught between a sense of duty and every instinct to protect his daughter from judgment for something she had no choice in, Cullen was not paying attention as he should have and Olive noticed.

“Daddy!” Olive whined, tugging on his hand.  “You’re not _looking_.”

“I’m very sorry, sweetheart,” he said and knelt.  “I know I just got home, but I need to speak to the Herald, then I’ll come back and tuck you in.  Is that alright?” He asked as softly and gently as he could, knowing that Olive without a nap was likely to be overtired and more of a handful than normal.  However, her tiny mouth bowed in confusion.

“Who’s Harold?” she asked, and behind him he heard the Herald and Esther both chuckle.  Esther stepped in, saving him from having to explain further.

“He means Maeve,” Esther said, and then the older woman caught his eye.  “Don’t worry, I can stay a bit longer. I assume my grandson is off on some important errand if he’s not come around trying to cage some scraps.”  Cullen did grin then. Owen was barely twenty-four, and still ate like he was a growing lad.

“He did ask me to pass on his apology,” Cullen said.  Esther snorted, not believing that for an instant, but Cullen had tried.  Then he regarded his daughter once more. She was frowning and clearly unhappy with the upset to their routine, but she blew out a heavy breath as if granting precious permission.  

“Oooookaaaaaaay.  I guess,” she said at last with only a little bit of a huff.  Cullen chuckled and kissed the top of her head. For a moment he let himself forget war and demons and tears in the sky.  For a moment he was simply a father to a wonderful and maddening little girl.

He stood and turned to the Herald.  She waited patiently, curiosity painted on her face.  Because of his daughter, or because he had stated that he needed to talk to her.  It was not clear, but he gestured toward the door all the same, and they left the warmth of the cabin for the cold of the mountain night.

The stars glittered overhead, but the green tear in the sky was all the more visible at night.  The Herald glanced at it and frowned, regarding her palm with obvious discomfort. Oddly, that made him feel a little better.  She was not someone who believed herself always in the right, perhaps. Someone who would not see the mark on her hand as making her above reproach.  She feared and doubted like any other. That made what he was about to do easier, though still not welcome.

Yet, as much as he wanted this over with, he thought better of the direct approach.

“Thank you, for staying with Olive today.  It was not necessary, but I. I appreciate what you did.  It will not be a habit, I assure you.” He kept his back straight and walked with his hands behind his back, every inch the professional.  The Herald, however, broke into a dimpled smile.

“You think it was a bother for me, don’t you?” she asked.  The Herald waved her hand--her right hand--dismissively. “I had fun today.  She’s a sweet girl, and well, I’m happy to help. I think she and I got on well.  I know I need to get to the Hinterlands and find this Mother Giselle, but really, I’d be happy to help out more when I get back.”

“Well.  That is good, then,” he said, faltering over his words only slightly.  He had not expected that, though perhaps he should have. She had willingly spent nearly the whole day with Olive, and had even eaten dinner with her and Esther.  There was, however, something he still owed her. Coughing, he tried to summon up the words that would explain the situation without embarrassing himself. It had been easy with Owen and Esther and those in Kirkwall.  They knew because they had been there. Cassandra, Leliana, and Josephine had learned all they needed to know without making him go through the whole story. And now, those who did know would not divulge the story themselves.  That meant he, for once, had to explain.

“There are some things you might wish to know, about Olive,” he began, but the Herald crossed her arms and stopped in the middle of the path.

“I know she’s a wonderful child, and a happy child.  I know her mother is dead, at least that’s the impression I get from the situation. Or not around, regardless.  And I know she has a father who loves her very much, and who should probably go tuck her in before she gets really upset.”  She smiled on the last point, and Cullen was suddenly grateful that she had been able to fill in the gaps and had saved him from having to delve into details that he kept close to his chest.  Not for his sake, but for Olive’s. Then a wry light glinted in her brown eyes and she drawled. “Besides, I’ve already had Leliana threaten me over her, so I know Cassandra had to know about her before offering you this position.”

“Yes, she did.  They all did. I had thought it better than Kirkwall for her, something more stable and safer.”  Anger and frustration laced his tones. He had been with Olive the night the Temple had been destroyed.  The noise and shaking had woken her, making her cry and yell, and he had refused to let go of her even while ordering his soldiers out.  Not for the first time her young life had been rocked by events she should not have been anywhere near, and Cullen very much wanted to find the people who were responsible for this and see them stopped.  The leather of his gloves creaked in the cold, and he belatedly realized he had clenched his fists.

“I can understand that,” the Herald said softly, wrapping her arms around herself. Her long black hair hung in loose waves around her face like a shield against the biting mountain air, and she nudged her nose into the scarf around her neck.  Belatedly, it occurred to him that they had stopped and the cold had wormed its way past her layers. Once again he cleared his throat and decided he had detained her long enough.

“Then, I thank you, Herald, for your understanding,” he replied, ducking his head.  Her mouth twisted in distaste at the title.

“Though you could do me a favor and call me by my _name_.”  There was a sharpness to her tone, but he did not think it was aimed at him.  He frowned, not sure how to respond to that. If she did not care for her title it would be unkind to foist it upon her, and yet it seemed wrong to address her with such familiarity.  Still, Olive called her by her name, and perhaps there was a middle ground.

“If that is what you wish, then when I am… off duty as it were, I will try to do so.  Though, when we discuss Inquisition matters-”

“That’s good enough for me,” she said, seizing on the opportunity he had offered with alacrity.  Then she rubbed her hands over her arms, and agrin appeared on her face. “Now, I’m going to try to get some sleep.  I have a feeling Cassandra is going to want to get an early start for the Hinterlands tomorrow morning. Something about _leaving at dawn_ , which is really upsetting.”

“Hm, leaving at dawn?  You must have done something to irritate her.  Normally she rises at dawn,” he remarked, a grin of his own curving his lips to match hers.  The Herald’s - Maeve’s - mouth hung open in shock.

“I knew it!   _Leaving_ at dawn?  Andraste, I need to figure out how to make her like me if that’s the kind of thing I can expect,” Maeve said.  Then she inclined her head, and he gave her a slight bow. “Say good-bye to Olive for me, then. And tell her I’ll try to bring her back something from Ferelden.  Good night, Commander.”

“Cullen,” he supplied before he could think about it.  She grinned wider in the night, her breath steaming from her mouth.

“Cullen, then,” she echoed, and turned to go.  He did likewise, to go back to his daughter and see her to sleep.

 

* * *

 

Maeve shook off her boots and shrugged off her outer layers as she entered her cabin, tossing them all aside in a crumpled heap. As she closed the door behind her, she breathed a sigh of relief at the balminess of the cabin. Low flames flickered in the fireplace, and Maeve was suddenly overcome with gratitude for Josephine’s offer to have someone keep the embers going through the day, after they had commiserated the day before over their mutual hatred of the cold.

Maeve’s eyes drifted from the comforting glow of the fire to her pack sitting empty on the floor. She had been putting it off, packing, but now was the time. With an irritated twinge, she set to gathering up everything she needed for the journey to the Hinterlands in the morning. Not that it took long. Most everything she had brought from home had been destroyed in the conclave explosion, all but the clothes she was wearing at the time. Those clothes, along with a few basic things purchased in the village and the armor provided by the Inquisition were all she had to her name now.

Her pack now ready, Maeve wasted no time in drawing the curtains and slipping into her plain but warm sleeping tunic. She wasted even less time in wriggling into the bed, rolling onto her stomach with her legs sprawled out wildly under the blankets. She doubted she’d be able to sleep this early, but she had to try. She willed herself not to think about how few precious hours of rest she’d get even if she fell asleep right at this moment, but the more she told herself not to think about it, the more awake she felt. The sounds of music and drunken laughter drifting over from the tavern didn’t help, either.

The commander - Cullen - had suggested that their early departure in the morning was some form of punishment from Cassandra, and she was inclined to agree with him. Maeve would admit that she was, at times, rather hostile toward Cassandra when she probably shouldn’t be. But her resentment at starting off here as a prisoner, as the wrongful suspect of a horrible crime, had not quite fizzled yet.

She hadn’t _asked_ for any of this, after all. She knew she wasn’t the right person to carry such a massive responsibility, she didn’t pretend to be anything but an unlucky nobody, yet Cassandra still seemed to expect _so_ much of her, wanted her to be _more._ More than Maeve would ever be capable of living up to. It left a bitterness in her mouth and a tension in her shoulders that often soured their conversations. Maeve didn’t want it to be that way, but she didn’t know how to change.

Maeve buried her face deeper into her pillow and exhaled heavily. Of all the people to survive the explosion and wind up with this mark, why her? If she really was chosen by the Maker, then He made a very poor choice. She was more suited to help with smaller matters, things she could see, could wrap her mind around easily. Like watching Olive today. Taking care of a little girl, helping out a colleague, _that_ was a task she could handle. Not holding the world's fate in the palm of her hand.

The sounds of the tavern had begun to fade by the time Maeve finally felt herself drifting away into sleep, her quiet dread giving way to tired resignation. Perhaps things would get better in the days to come - not only with Cassandra, but with everything, the entire situation. Perhaps talking to this Mother Giselle would help, though frankly Maeve doubted that. But perhaps she'd be able to make herself useful, for once. Even if only with something small.

Mind turned to small things, little things, an image of tiny boots popped into her head.  The tiny fur-lined boots that Olive wore. Maybe if even meeting with the Chantry Mother didn’t go well, she could bring something back for the little girl.  Something fun or pretty, two things that were in short supply in a war camp. Something small, something that wouldn’t matter to anyone but a little girl whose entire life had been turned upside down, whether she realized it or not. Maybe that’s what Maeve was meant to do. Help people when she could, even if it was small and it didn’t matter to anyone else.

It mattered to that one person.

That was something she could handle.


End file.
